Sexniques: The World Cup Edition

Posted: June 24, 2010 by kaostheory in Advice, Informative
Tags: , ,

Because we here at Dan Eats Cat Food apparently are getting into the pattern of rehashing old articles with new twists instead of providing new content lately, we have gone back into the vault so that we can modify yet another sex advice piece. Wonderful. This is a great idea since the world absolutely needs more unqualified advice columnists to guide them through the treacherous waters of sexuality and personal, intimate interaction. God knows that People, if you actually listen to what we are telling you, you will be getting less ass than…I don’t know, Bolivia after a donkey genocide.

(Seriously? THAT was the comparison you decided to go with? – ed.)

Not my finest, I will admit that. I should have gone with less ass than a Mormon boy on prom night.

(That’s only marginally better. – ed.)

Less ass than a skeleton orgy?

(Are…did you suffer a massive blow to the head recently? Ugh. Just do the article, man. – ed.)

FINE. God.
The Jabulani:This one requires a little bit of pre-planning if only to give yourself the chance to make this legit. By legit, we of course mean painting your sackbag red and green and yellow and white. Be careful though. If the chick you’re focusing on banging the shit out of is Brazilian or Argentinian or really any South American or African nationality, she may feel compelled to start kicking it around. If that happens, you need to run the hell away because the Jabulani isn’t really controllable after being kicked and you don’t want to have to replace the drywall.

The Vuvuzela:This is pretty simple. It’s when she’s getting her blow on and she starts humming to increase the sensations. Except instead of a light humming that should make your knees quiver, she goes into a full-out screaming session on your dick, lips still locked on like a wet plunger stuck to a bathroom wall. Eventually, it’ll get to be too much for you and you’ll start wailing and trying to get her to stop, the humming having reached the inside of your brain and ears, making them throb unceasingly. Too late you realize that you are in fact living in Hell and the humming will never stop and you will never lose your load.

The Pitch:Well, this is obviously the playing field, isn’t it? So…the bed, the floor, the couch, the kitchen table, the hot tub, the shower, the backseat of a 1997 Jetta, the roof, the lawn, the swing in the children’s playground down the street, Australia…

The Goal:Anal. That is all.

The Handball:Ladies, we understand that you get incredibly enthusiastic when you’re smoking the Cohiba. We get it. Our wangs are pillars of manlyness and sometimes you just have to have your mouth around them. It’s cool. Sometimes you even like using your hands to mix things up, make things a little more interesting. There is nothing wrong with that. If anything, it spikes our heartrate. But when you rear back and smack the coin purse as hard as you able to in an attempt to, presumably, spur us on like a horse, we have to draw the line. That behavior is, in many circles, considered impolite.

The Free Kick:If you get one of these, you are set for life. A free kick in this context means that you have free and open access to any and all fields of play and goals. If you miss, however, you will be ruthlessly mocked and teased for all eternity. So don’t…um…blow it.

The Cards:Definitely tricky in implementation. If you go for the “goal” and experience a “handball” instead, you can give the “yellow card” for a “free kick”. Unfortunately, she can give a “red card” of her own and send you to the “locker room” (read: the couch).

The Flop:We’ve all done it. You’re with someone – some hosebeast – that you really don’t want to be with. Things didn’t work out in your favor and you’re going down a fat and greasy road. Thank God you had your wits about you enough to cap your oil drill site. All you have to do now is maintain semi-erect status for as long as you have to in order to fake the…call it the Grand Illusion if you will. That way, you can pull out, your pipe wrench long since flaccid and useless, roll over, fake going to sleep and take the fuck off as soon as Jabba the Hutt has drifted off.

The Diego Maradona:You use your fingers to bring about a religious revelation. (Hand of God, get it? Get it? Eh, it was before your time, I guess).

The Landon Donovan:You spend the majority of the sex not doing anything incredibly spectacular – a solid performance but nothing exciting – until all of a sudden, you turn on the jets, hammer on her erogenous zones and bring about a tremendous, thrashing explosion. She will be so thrilled by your performance that you will probably be treated to another round.

The Robert Green:The opposite of the Landon Donovan. You sex reasonably well for a while until, uh-oh-spaghettios, for whatever reason, something trips your trigger and you coat the inside of her net with mistimed slippery. Don’t worry. The outrage that she will have will be matched by the love from other friends who wanted nothing more than to see that bitch go down.

The Koman Coulibaly:Everyone hates you. You will never be loved. You will go home after a horrific night at the bar, not only getting shot down by every woman there but even cockblocking your friends by making a cancer joke in front of a set of twins that lost their dad just the day before. You will cry, rub yourself to a weak orgasm and then hang yourself with an extension cord. You will deserve it. Nobody will attend your funeral.

(I wouldn’t nearly call this a success. – ed.)

What would you call it then?

(Grounds for a defamation lawsuit. – ed.)

What? From that Mali dude? He’s from MALI. Like he fucking knows what defamation is.

(KAOS! – ed.)

What? It’s probably not taught in schools over there. It’s a complex concept. Even I don’t fully understand it.

(Annnnnnnd we’re stopping here before we get in more trouble. Happy trails, all. Go USA! – ed.)

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